Fleeting
by l0chn3ss
Summary: Just like clockwork, Soul has always taken the bus to and from wherever he needs to be. He sits in the back, keeping to himself, listening to music, unwilling to be bothered by others. Except one. The girl who sat alone, who saw color where he thought there was only monochrome, who he wants his music to be touched by the most. The one named Maka. Reverb 2k15.
1. Spring

**A/N:** Here it is~ My solo fic for Reverb 2015

I've always spent my time on the transit, going to places far and wide, spending a buck or two depending on the bus or the metro. Oh the curses of not having a license. However, I love my time on it and I've seen and felt the beauty of traveling. It's a whole other experience for me and so I was so happy to be able to get Captainpomelo's Public Transport AU for Reverb. (fists bumps for first choice wins) She's been nothing but wonderful and a great friend to laugh and talk to so I dedicate this story to her and our shared time on public transit~

Thank you to Ash, Proma, Keryn, Flamingo, GG, Dander, Lucy, and Roni for your wonderful eyes~

This story is also loosely inspired by the anime/manga "April is your lie."

 _I received permission to extend my deadline so I'll be updating when I can._

I hope you all enjoy~

* * *

 ** _Fleeting | Reverb '15 | A SoMa Public Transportation AU_**

Stop and go.

Green then yellow.

With every passing shadow, Soul's attention drifted outside the window, willing him towards the sunlight that lurked behind the leaves. His eyes caught the bright specks and it blinded him, but he blinked away the irritation, choosing instead to look on at the moving scene before him.

No one looked familiar; in fact, there weren't any faces he could pull from the crowd even though all the buildings were recognizable enough for him to know that he was headed in the right direction. They whizzed by, escaping his careful gaze as new signs and streets replaced them on his journey.

Just a little more. _Just a little closer_ , he thought. He was near his destination, or at least one of them. The bus slowed to a crawl, easing its way to the sidewalk and the bus stop. Air pressure was released as his right side dipped and the doors swung open.

Soul didn't bother to look at the people who silently shuffled into the empty rows in front of him. He didn't need to see them, didn't need to know who they were. They came and they went, just like all the other people in his life, just like those people who were there before them, the ones who occupied space, and then left. They were fleeting. Dull and gray scale like everything else that seemed to pass by. He only knew that one thing, or rather two things, were constant: one, that they were taking this ride with him, and two, that they would be keeping to themselves as he did.

No questions asked. Not a word traveled to him or from him.

The bus grumbled under him, rising back to rebalance, and then merged with the lane, not bothering to wait for the new passengers to sit. It turned, it sped up, and then it slowed down. Soul sighed. The wait would be worth it, he reminded himself.

The air was hot. Sickly heat spread through the cramped space as flushed people were squeezed close to one another, unable to budge from where they were planted as the bus moved forward, honking as cars continue to cross its path. The half occupied handrails jerked when the light turned red, swaying from side to side as passengers pulled on them, desperate to remain upright.

He leaned against the window, looking out to the pedestrians that crossed the road, wondering if it was warm as where he was trapped. Sighing again, he turned back to the pages on his lap and continued to listen. "Come tomorrow, tomorrow I'll be gone," the singers wistfully sang into his ears. The whimsical sounds washed over him as he listened carefully for the notes that called to him, and he paused every so often to jot down more lines on his paper.

His job was easy enough. Anything music related was easy for a person of his caliber, and transcribing songs was one of the most laid back positions he could snag, even if it was from his own brother's record studio. His promised song for the day was half finished, but it was alright. He could complete it within the thirty minutes that it took to reach Wes' home, minus the ten minutes that he wasted already while his gaze shifted back to the right… at the girl who sat diagonally from him.

 _Damn it_ , he grumbled. _Damn it all._

She was the reason why he'd gotten nothing done, why his fingers itched to tap on his thighs, why his neck burned a little hotter under the already scorching heat of the bus. She was like the passing sights and the stolen wind, almost invisible, and yet he saw her, captivated by her. Soul wanted to grab his pencil and to scratch at his seat, to get up and move himself away from the evidence, and to seat himself behind her to watch her from another angle. But he silently remained where he was, stationed at the back of the humpback, a few seats behind her and across the row. _Closest to the air vents_ , he hastily thought and scolded at his reflection, and groaned at the terrible conditions he forced upon himself.

They'd never met, never crossed paths, and hell, she probably didn't know that he shared the same route as her. Twice a day. After school and then in the evening, though they got on and off during different times. Like clockwork, they always took the same bus at the same time. Truth be told, Soul had tried to delay his schedule by a few minutes, just to avoid this girl who he shared the same path with, but fate would always find a way for them to meet. Her very existence was terrible to him, terrible in all the right ways. She was as bad as Bonnaroo Buzz ice cream served with a plate of wafers and a bottle of Hershey chocolate syrup by a waiter who would insist it was all-you-can-eat. Addictive and sweet, a danger to all souls out there.

But.

 _She was a splash of color in his dull life._

A bump in the road caused her pigtails to bounce, though the pink elastic, ones as pink as her blouse, held them in place. She looked small enough to fall out of her seat at the next disturbance, and Soul wanted to be the one who held her steady.

 _Wait._

 _No._

He groaned, closing his eyes and rewinding the ipod in his hand, stifling back curses that he wanted to throw at himself. Only a creep would think such a thing, to want to hold her against her will somewhere she didn't want to be. He wouldn't be that person, even if her sandy blonde hair beckoned him closer, even if her pink round cheeks begged to be caressed.

 _Ew, oh hell no._

Begrudgingly, Soul admitted that she was quite pretty the more he looked at her. A year ago, when he'd first noticed her existence, when she first began to plague his thoughts, he was convinced she was plain looking, nothing to write home about, especially not with that hairstyle. She was like any other passenger; she came and she left, never dwelling in his life.

Although that changed quickly the more he found himself looking over to the back of her head, often enough to remember how she parted her hair, long enough to memorize how many times she looped her hair ties and the different colors she used depending on her outfit.

 _He was a mess._

In the months that followed, he saw the way she twiddled her thumbs when her stop grew closer, as if she were worried about missing it, though she never did. She furrowed her eyebrows sometimes and bit her bottom lip, gnawing on the soft pinkness that she thinly layered with capstick as she fidgeted. The girl grew more confident in the weeks that followed, gazing out the window idly instead of squinting to read the signs, never looking to his side of the bus. Eventually, she started to bring books, and then recently a kindle made its way into her bookbag. Soul relaxed when she fiddled with her kindle, laughing to himself when her shoulders stiffened from a hard game of tetris, leaning closer hoping to catch a glimpse of her score if they sat near each other that day, but not too close.

 _Never too close._

Most of the time, though, she would entertain herself by staring out of the window. _Like today_ , he thought, and she was beautiful when she was captivated by the world. It was like she was taking in all the sights and sounds around her. She captured it, every detail, every drop of color, and she never let it go, like she was holding it against her heart. Her face brightened at the littlest things, even at a leaf that found its way through the crack of the window and onto her lap, even at a boy who waved aimlessly at the bus. And she waved back, of course. She always waved back. He knew she was squinting through the light that blanketed her eyes, and he knew she was smiling, content with where she was now. She kept her chin held up and her heart open.

When they stopped at a red light, she would take a deep breath, taking a moment to see where they were, eyes darting at the shops across the street. She would take another breath, and he would lose his, trying to experience the day as she did. Did she smell the sweaty bodies, the dirty exhaust, or the filthy cushions? Or did she smell the drifting scent of the diners, the dough that browned in the bakery, or was it something else?

Soul tore his eyes away from her, focusing on his music.

She was an ever-present force in a place that moved- someone familiar where he should have had nobody. On a busy bus, through all this confusion, this bothersome space, there was a little spot of peace. This girl was the only tranquility that existed in his life, the quiet that rang the loudest. He knew they would meet again later that day, and again the next, even as his song told him otherwise, that come tomorrow, she would be gone. It was a painful reminder of the true nature of public transportation, and yet, he hoped it was wrong, hoped that he would see her again.

* * *

Surprisingly, they always got off at the same spot in the afternoon, but he went left and she went right. He went to Wes' house in the neighborhood across the street from the bus stop, and she went wherever she went. And after Soul escaped his brother with a lighter mind but a heavier knapsack, he would see the girl, standing at the bus stop with her bag over her right shoulder, or sometimes he would see her walking up. And they patiently waited for the bus that would appear a few minutes later, just like clockwork.

There were more people that evening, more than he'd ever seen at that bus stop. Was there an event that he hadn't heard about? A city wide plot that he wasn't a part of? He grimaced and nudged his knapsack closer to his leg, making minimal effort to show ownership but knowing it was still effective.

Wes had let him off early that day, pleased with the song that Soul had transcribed, not knowing that it had only been completed on the hard surface of Wes' front door. Or perhaps he did know- maybe he heard the scratching of lead on his door, or see the messy half-filled notes that Soul abandoned. Either way, he'd taken it, hadn't he? And he let Soul play on the grand piano in his living room until he was fit enough to make the journey home, always before Wes could offer dinner, always in time to see the girl walk up to the bus stop.

He bit his lip. Bus stops were a menace, terrible places full of terrible things. There were people, odd smells, people, sometimes even trash, and trashy and smelly people. Yes, these were the horrors that plagued public transport, but at least he could rely on his music.

After switching to a new track, he leaned forward, pressing his elbows to his thighs, closing his eyes to block out the people around. He let himself fall into the guitar as it strummed, envisioning the strings as they vibrated in chords. His fingers twined together and he let them drop in front of him frustratingly. The bus should've been coming soon, should've made its way around the corner by now, but it clearly wasn't there. Soul hung his head, too tired to glare onto the empty streets, too warm under his black jacket to complain about the people again.

But then, he caught a whiff of a cooling scent, a fresh spring breeze almost, like the season that signaled change. It reminded him of the flowers that bloomed on trees, the ones that released their petals swirl with the wind, filling the sky with color. He looked to his immediate left, and there she was, looking down at where he sat.

Soul tore his eyes away, flustered at her sudden attention. In that split second, he saw her small, thin nose that pointed out, and a sprinkle of freckles that he'd never seen before. He noticed her pale, tiny ears and her pink lips that were pressed into a thin line, sticking to each other as if they hadn't opened in a while. And he was surprised at the stunning green that he'd seen, the hushed forest that reflected light through the curtain of foliage overhead. He was lost in them, her eyes, and even though he wasn't facing them anymore, they were etched into his mind.

And then the bus pulled up, crashing through his thoughts before they could drift to other things.


	2. April 15, 20XX

**_April 15, 20XX_**

I couldn't hear a word. Not a single word, Oxford. And yet I heard more of him than I ever did this past year. I felt closer to him than I'd ever been.

He was exactly as I had seen in the reflection of the window, but his sun kissed skin was tanner than a... erm… McDonalds French Fry… and his hair shone brightly around his face, as if he were he were a gift from god, the McDonalds god.

His eyes were still piercing, just as the day I first saw him in the back of the bus, looking to the outside world with longing, but they were a much more vivid color than I remembered, like… maybe a lobster? Ahh, but lobsters aren't always red, are they? In that case, they were like the change of the leaves in Autumn. His red burned like a fire newt and bewitched me easily like a potion. But that's not all! His voice… it was as low as the rumble of a mountain; I could feel it in me, Oxford, the vibrations of his sound, and I wish, I wish so much that I could experience him wholly.

 _But I can't._

I'm just another deaf girl. A deaf girl with so little time left. But with him, on that bus ride, we felt eternal, like my own tracks extended and they could run on forever. We were in a sea, within a colorful school of tropical fish. I felt like I was moving. Not that I'm not moving now, of course… But with him, it was different.

Though on the bus today, there were far more people than I'd ever seen, boarding our bus. I should've waited for the next one, maybe stayed in the library for a bit longer, anything to avoid the crowd of students who exited the library along with me.

But I was impatient, so impatient to see him again, and I knew that if I lingered for a few steps, if I stopped walking, I may never see him again. The public transport is strange. On some days, I may not see the balding man who goes to pick up his granddaughter, or even the middle school boy who goes to his auntie's house every day after school and is greeted by her at her front porch. Other times, I could miss the woman who carries her grocery bags with her lips in a firm line, or the professor with a pen holding up the bun in her hair. Though never have I ever missed a day when I'd see the boy with his headphones in his ears, lost in his own world, sitting alone at the back of the bus.

We met our eyes at the bus station that day, a change from our usual minding-our-own-business dance that we shared, but I looked away as quickly as he did, face ablaze. In our own folly, we allowed the crowd to board the bus first, becoming the last few who flashed our card at the driver who waved us through. For once, we were stuck in the front, squished together like jelly beans in a bag. I saw the door close, and before I could grab a hold of the bar, the bus bumped forward.

I'm mortified, Oxford. I landed right in his arms. Right in the center of his broad chest with a pat, face first. And then I felt his arm around my waist hold me steady, even as my legs shook from the floor.

 _He was gentle._

He was so, so gentle, as if he were holding petals of a rose rather than another person. His hand never crossed the boundary; it disappointingly rested at my hip, but I could feel the strength of his fingers. My own hand that shot out to brace myself, though, it was a traitor. It pressed against his chest and felt the warmth of the fabric, right over where his heart lay. If my ears couldn't hear it, my hand whispered to me of his rhythm instead.

 _It pounded._

It raced faster, as if it were going to burst from his chest, fueled by the adrenaline rush, perhaps. And I squeezed my eyes tightly. I don't know why, but I did, though he took it as imbalance, and he held me closer to him, fueling the blush I felt growing on my face.

His smell, Oxford. He smelled so pleasant, so comforting and indescribable, that I allowed myself to lean in closer to his body though I prayed he wouldn't notice how my eyelashes fluttered and my ears grew red.

He seemed to see everything, like nothing ever escaped his gaze, and nothing ever would. I can tell, he doesn't view the world the same way we do, through schedules and time and through painful nights.

 _No, he sees the world in music._

The squeaking of the brakes, the chirping of the blue jays, the melody of the road. It's all there for him, laid out, stark. Not even the others on the bus smiled as a baby cooed in its stroller. They didn't hear the hum of the engine, coaxing them to sleep. No one heard the earth like he did, nor did they turn their ears to the trees that sang the lyrics of the wind like him.

He was the sounds all together, _but I couldn't hear a thing_.


	3. Summer

Soul grumbled when he heard the humming draw closer, opening his eyes as he felt the heat radiate from the engine on his sweaty hands. The platform lowered, and Soul stepped on board, flashing his bus pass to the driver, nodding to him after recognizing his familiar moustache. It was a very bushy moustache.

He'd been mulling his thoughts over all day and all of last night, rueing this moment above all. How would he face her today, knowing that he touched her soft skin with his rough hands, knowing that he held a stranger against his chest with an arm around her waist, knowing that he enjoyed every moment of that intrusion? It was only supposed to be a figment of his imagination, a moment of boyish weakness, not an event that he could revisit in his memories.

After he left the scene of the crime, he couldn't help but to look back as it drove away against the orange sunset, like he was losing an important moment of his history. They would never know if that bus would ever come again, and there would be no way of telling if they would board that very one for the rest of his days. That was what public transport was about, the come and the go, yet he felt like he had let go of a treasure he didn't know he wanted.

And her- how did she feel about it?

She stood there next to him for so long, even after the road smoothed out, even after the seats opened up and there was more than enough room to step away, even after he let her go. She'd stayed by his side, gripping the railing with tight fingers, glaring at the ground with her lips pressed in a line, not budging an inch, and he didn't have the strength to move away either. They never made eye contact after she looked up from his chest and pulled away, after she made his heart squeeze and his stomach flip. As they pulled into a familiar neighborhood, one close by to his high school, her head snapped up, and she nodded once to him, taking off without another word. Not even a thank you.

If that didn't mean something, then Soul would break all his pencils and transcribe the rest of Wes' music requests in pen. He couldn't come to a conclusion about what she meant, and her actions simply didn't add up. Why did she stay but run off as hastily as she did? Why did it look as if her ears were flushed and as if she were holding back her tongue? He didn't know, and his sleepless night was proof of it.

He tucked his bus pass back into the back of his jeans, shuffling slowly through the crowd, knowing well that there were impatient people behind him. There were people everywhere again, not talking, minding their own business, carrying out their day as strangers.

So of course there would be no seat left except for the one beside her, like fate had tied their meeting together, too reluctant to let Soul escape without a scratch. Normally, he would resign himself to such a destiny and stay at the front where he would lean against a pole or grab onto a dangling handle.

But this time, he crossed the line, erasing it entirely, and tentatively approached her. She was deep in thought, unfocused, gazing into the fuzzy horizon over the trees, unaware that there was anyone there, much less him. Her hands rested gently over her jeans and her bag was tucked against the wall just under the window. It provided him with more than enough room to sit, though he still hesitated.

Soul cleared his throat, but she didn't react. He tried again, a little louder this time, but still no response. _Strange_ , he thought, but then the bus started to move. He swayed at the motion, grabbing the handle on top of the chair. That was when she saw him and patted the seat next to her, welcoming him into her space.

He slid into it, dropping his knapsack onto the floor with a thud, leaning back into the cushion after he relieved his back of the heavy weight. He sighed. This wasn't how he wanted to spend his afternoon- cautious and wary of someone, much less a girl. From the corner of his eyes, he saw her face soften, her lips curving into a grin.

So what kind of sign was that? Wasn't she mad? _Upset_? Did the thing that happened yesterday even happen?

He didn't want to know the answer, didn't want to face the reality that perhaps he'd imagined it all, that he'd fallen for a daydream that felt too real. But it happened, didn't it? He felt her warmth around the length of his arm and in his cheeks. She pressed her hand to his chest and her feet were unsteady. The bus rolled on that evening, even though time had stopped for them, didn't it? Soul needed to know. He wanted to hear her say something, anything to break the silence, about what happened yesterday, no matter how embarrassed he felt about it. If she acknowledged it, then maybe it really did happen.

She suddenly sat up, as if she remembered something. She reached into her bag, interrupting his thought, and pulled out a beige cloth bag, placing it onto her thighs. Her hand disappeared again, emerging once more with a notepad the size of both her hands put together. She flipped to the first page, tapped his shoulder, as if he weren't already paying attention to her, and held out the words already written in a neat line.

" _Hi_ ," it read. " _My name is Maka_."

Maka.

Her name was Maka.

 _Maka._

He wanted to try it out on his tongue, to see how it would sound with his own voice. Would it hum in the back of his throat and come out as a gale? Or would it hit him like lightning, thunder echoing in the rain and through his ears like a category five hurricane? She was a certain type of weather, like a late April storm, and he was caught right in the middle. He parted his mouth, just enough to take in a sharp breath, closing it just as quickly.

This was her influence on him. He wanted to sit and admire her as she held up the notepad eagerly, happy to share. Time was endless and eternal with her and although he'd never talked to her before, let alone shared the same seats as her, it was like she'd filled the hole that loneliness had punched into him. There was no need for other noises to distract him. But why didn't she say something-

" _I'm deaf._ "

His eyes widened and he felt the cold creep in despite the afternoon heat. Soul lifted his face from the paper to hers, and she tilted her head expectantly, waiting for him to say something.

But all he could think of now was that line.

That simple line cut through his world like the grim reaper would with a deceased soul. He felt the blade run right through him, right into his heart where only music dwelled.

Does that mean she'd never heard wind chimes that tinkle by the open window? The sizzling of bacon as morning cracked through the blinds? Vivaldi's _Four Seasons_? The distant rolls of thunder and the background chorus of rain? The crack of a match as it sprung to life and die just as quickly? Mozart's _Requiem Dies Irae_?

Does that mean she'd never get a chance to listen to the echo of the fireworks as they disturbed the dark skies? The pleasant silence after a day of noise? Tchaikovsky's _Dance of the Mirlitons_? The sound of someone, telling you that "it's going to be alright"? The rhythmic rhythm of their sleep laced breathing? Chopin's _Winter Wind_?

And never a round of applause?

His throat ran dry and his words were stuck where they would never be heard.

Maka flipped to an empty page somewhere in the middle of the notepad, and she smoothed it out with her thumb, running it across the page like it were a lover. She unzipped the beige bag that had been waiting patiently for her, and she pulled out a variety of pens, thick and thin, colorful and black, fanning it out in front of him.

He heard her silent request to pick one out, so he chose a green gel pen. Maka put the rest away, leaving only a red pen in her hand. She adjusted the notepad and began to write swiftly, filling up the blank space with bright ink.

They said you could tell a lot about a person from the way they write, that handwriting tells more about the subconscious than anyone wanted to know. When Soul saw what bloomed on the paper, he believed in it, in all of the crazy hype for reading handwriting.

It was neat, pristine, and it flowed smoothly like a stream. She wrote in a combination of cursive and print, looping her "l"s and connecting her vowels together with nearby letters when she could. But she never went back to dot her "i"s nor did she fully cross her "t"s, as if she had more important things to say than to linger on insignificant lines.

" _I'm sorry about yesterday,"_ she wrote. " _I didn't mean to crash into you. The ground was very unstable._ " A bump caused her to lift her hand. " _Normally, I'd be able to read your lips, but the bus is rocky. What's your name? Or are you a nameless soul?"_

Maka passed the notepad over to him, smiling as she tapped the page with her pen. Before he responded though, he went over every "i" and every "t" with his green, completing them. Soul had also scribbled much more slowly than he would have liked, and the shaky bus had left his already bad handwriting looking more like chicken scratch than words. It really wasn't like drawing little dots on a few lines.

" _It's fine. The bus is terrible. You got it right. Name is Soul."_

" _No way. I was just joking, what's your real name? You look like a "Ronald" to me."_

Soul grimaced at the makeshift name, wondering if he really gave off a dorky name like that. " _Are you calling me Ronald McDonald?"_

" _Well, you do remind me of a french fry,"_ she tapped her chin thoughtfully before squeezing in one more line at the bottom of the paper. " _A lobster, too."_

Flipping onto another page, he wrote, " _Where are you pulling all of these random things?"_

" _This is your vibe, just own up to it."_

" _Try again. My name is cooler."_

" _Jack Frost, then? The coolest of all."_

" _Ha ha. Funny."_

" _Jake from StateFarm? TV made you taller, Jake."_

" _You can hear the TV?"_

" _We have what's called subtitles, Sherlock. They help out the deaf, the hard of hearing, and the sneaky kids who try to watch late night shows."_

" _Which one are you?"_

" _All three, of course. Though not all at one. I've entertained you long enough, what's your name?"_

" _Keep guessing, Watson."_

And so they went on.

Maka kept throwing out both random and inconspicuous names on a page at a time while Soul continued to complete her words and to write a very bolded " _NO_ " in the middle of all her guesses. When she started to run out of names, she wrote the ones she did manage to come up with in larger font to take up more room, and he grinned as they only continued to grow in size.

As he waited for the notepad to make it back onto his lap, he peeked at her face, full of both concentration and frustration as her handwriting became messier and messier. Her eyes never left her lap and her hand slowed, but it never stopped moving. Instead, she forced on, and if that wasn't cute, then perhaps her set lips and her furrowed eyebrows were.

The bus justled, forcing his line of sight to move outside of the window.

 _Oh, shit._

He reached out to tap the back of her hand with the pen, and when she looked up in annoyance, he pointed to upcoming bus stop. Their stop.

Maka flipped to another page hastily, squiggling down her thoughts in cursive. " _Continue later?"_

" _Ya."_

Soul handed her the pen back, but she shook her head, smirking as she wrote, " _Keep it. You'll need it for later. Besides-"_ The bus slowed to a crawl. " _\- this gives me a reason to see you later."_

They parted after they hopped off the bus; she went right and he went left, only this time, they waved just before turning away. He all but skipped down the sidewalk, clutching the pen in his hand and his iPod in his other as the voice of a woman played in his ears.

Sweet opera trilled, rising and falling with the violin, though he could still hear the rustling leaves as the afternoon sun fell. He noticed the small cherry blossom in the back of someone's yard in mid-bloom, not quite white, but just a hint of pink emerging on the petals. The grass was greener on the other side.

Although, he'd only made it halfway down the street before he was frozen stiff.

The bus ride that day was a terrible distraction. A blissful, wonderful, _horrible_ distraction. He threw off his backpack and struggled with the zipper as he tried to rip it to the side. The thought of the blank music sheet sitting in the middle of his folder and the sound of the new track mocked him while he cursed himself out.

 _But… it was worth it._

Later that hour, Soul presented the paper to his brother who once again ignored the barely filled in scores and the new bright green ink.

* * *

A month or two had passed since that day, and yet even after Maka had forced Soul to pull out his bus pass to confirm his name, and even after they'd parted for the night again, Maka didn't take back her pen.

" _You're a strange Soul,"_ she had written, and he felt her set his heart on fire as she finished the loop on the "l".

" _I did tell you,"_ he shot back.

It was easy to get a rise out of her as he would see as the days went on, but he enjoyed her pout and her messy handwriting. He held back a chuckle when she pushed her words into his waiting palm, only to prove that his handwriting would always be more chaotic.

This was how he would spend the day and the evening. Not much had changed really. He never stopped watching her expressive face as she threw herself into everything she did, but this time, he was able to see her directly instead of just a glimpse from the side. His headphones were still in place, playing Wes' latest pieces though his brother had long since assured Soul that he didn't need to rush when he'd caught Soul finishing up yet another sheet on his front door, pushing him to the dining table with a cup of juice.

He'd begun to spend his time on the bus doing more mundane things, too. On days where they weren't exchanging ink, they read on their respective devices or just basked in the rays as they poured onto their faces from the window. When she'd fallen asleep on his shoulder that evening, trusting him to wake her up at her stop, which happened to be the stop just after he'd get on in the afternoon, he knew they'd crossed the point of no return.

In that way, maybe everything _had_ changed since he'd met her.

Certainly, his world had been monotone, vignette at best before she'd arrived. But slowly, Maka had stained his life with her colors, breathing in all of his gray, then exhaling out a blue as serene as her features. Her fingertips spilled out orange as she tapped away on her kindle, and her shoulders vibrated in yellow when she'd clear a level in one of her games. Purple was the color of her knowing smile as she still followed her own routine, mysterious as she when she walked away from him every day, but returning with the colors of the sunset behind her when they met again.

And if green was the world where her feet touched the ground and where her matching eyes lingered, then Soul had become her red that she would allow to flow on parchment.

It was the color of extremes, of strength, and of passion.

It was the color woven into her phrases and danced on the syllables that she would mouth out when she'd forgotten how to spell a word, carrying her along until Soul would cross it out and replace the letters with his own. Then it became the red in her pride when he'd dropped into his seat with books on sign language, stumbling through ungraceful fingers and shaking hands until she closed hers over his and helped him form sentences.

It often resided in her as a challenge, and Soul could remember when she'd shared her favorite music genre, stating that the beat and bass was easiest to feel in her chest while his own heart tightened, unsure if she should call that a victory.

But on days like this, it was her red when she would flutter her eyelids open and push away from his shoulder in confusion. The red on her cheek when she touched the imprint of his seams on her face. The red flecks in her irises while she punished his sweater for leaving a mark on her.

And the red that she filled in him.


	4. June 05, 20XX

_June 05, 20XX_

The days are growing warmer, Oxford, and I can't help but to notice my health declining as the temperatures rise.

Earlier today, I became more light headed from the thick air on the bus. And even though Soul allowed me to sit by the open window- well… it's my spot so why wouldn't he?- it did nothing to curb the sickness nor the dizziness I felt lurking inside of me. The summer heat still called to me through the window and the light was heavy on my skin.

In brighter news, heh, he's getting better at signing. He no longer mistakes the word "coffee" for "make" or ironically stumbles on the sign for "confusion." Soul has even started to recognize his own mistakes in how he positions his hands, where he should be pointing, and how he moves them.

But he still looks to me for reassurance, and in that moment of hesitation, that's when he stumbles. I feel almost sorry for him. He should be using his hands to make music, not words- but it's not like they're too far off.

I still prefer the written word though, right Oxford? There's intimacy as notes are passed along and how writing is shared between two people, a kind of intimacy I hold and cherish. Even if the mind forgets, the paper remembers.

 _Like music._

If only I could hear the pages turn in the notepads and journals that I've kept over the years and figure out what kind of tales they would sing to me from the past. Wouldn't that be fun? Although…

I sigh at what I may find in April, at the lie that I'd told him one afternoon, just before we left each other for a few hours. It wasn't a heavy lie, though it wasn't the truth either. But I wonder if he understood me, or if he even understood the weight of the question he'd asked.

Do you remember, Ox?

He asked so suddenly, wondering if there was anyone that I had someone special to me. It was adorable the way his penmanship came out more crooked and how his cheeks flushed a vibrant red. I could tell that he'd even considered striking out his words with the few green indentations that dotted the side of his letters.

And I stumbled over myself, trying to come up with an answer that would suit the both of us. One to show that I couldn't let anyone close to me, nor could I let myself be close to _them_. I had written that I didn't have enough time to hold someone special to me, but that _you_ , Oxford, were the only one who ever held my heart. Well... that part of it is true, isn't it?

Soul took back the notepad and briskly jotted down a very male name, right under yours. He must have seen the shock on my face as plain as day, so he quickly mentioned that it was his brother and _not_ because he bent that way, telling me that he too didn't have time for any of it, that he would much rather be focused on his music anyway.

My heart couldn't help but to _tug_ for him.

There sat a boy, whose music is kept a secret from his forbidding parents, whose only brother is also his only supporter. They call it a waste of time, trash, useless. They have no idea of the weight they'd thrown onto his shoulders and how he sneaks away to his brother's home to continue onwards, focusing on the today rather than the past.

Just like the bus as it pushes forward, stopping just long enough before it keeps going.

Yet here I am, dawdling over a few words from distant years, trying to remember what the sounds used to whisper into my ears before it was taken from me. Yet I keep getting reminded of my hinderance, my weakness, and my inabilities. Yet I continue to wonder what his music would sound like and to listen to his heart as it speaks to me.

But just like him-

 _I have no use for yesterday._


	5. Autumn

_"If he writes her a few sonnets, he loves her. If he writes her 300 sonnets, he loves sonnets,"_ Soul read.

 _Fair enough_ , he thought as he continued to scroll through his website, counting the minutes until his class would end. His phone shouldn't have been out, but it wasn't a problem, seeing as how Soul had skipped AP Literature and was instead lounging on the roof.

He really did care about his education.

Sometimes.

But when the summer ended and the tradewinds shifted, he missed the time he had to waste and the days he where he could lounge in the sun. The months had passed as quickly as they came, and although it used to be a time of boredom and irritation, he had a newfound fondness for the autumn season.

When the school year ended last spring, Soul had also managed to convince his parents to allow his enrollment into one summer club, one summer _music_ club, but they didn't need to know those additional details. Wes was thrilled to hear of the news naturally, reminding him also that if their parents' home became too much to bear, his was always open. Despite the excitement, the club itself wasn't Soul's summer activity that he looked forward to - no, it was just an excuse.

He used that ride to school as another way to see Maka, who would still be taking the line over the holiday, to extend the time they shared together from April to beyond. After Soul cautiously warned her that he may not be able to make the times they usually travelled during a normal school day, she wrote with no hesitation: _not a problem. Let me know your new schedule, and I'll see you later then, Soul._

It was but a distant midsummer night's dream.

He pulled up Pandora again and sat himself upright against the wall, dragging his notebook onto his lap. The leftover fuzz from his green pen had smeared over his page, creating a diagonal that ran from left to right, and he sighed heavily at the ruined lyrics. Rubbing the mark only made it worse and so he abandoned it for a new leaf, flipping it in the same manner as he'd seen Maka do so many times before.

She would gently trace the edge of the page first, signaling her intent, and then used the tip of her fingers to lift the paper so that it was high enough to slip a nail under. Finally, she used a precise flicking motion to turn it over, smoothing it against the back with her other hand. The very motion resembled an artist painting a portrait, a portrait that Soul could instantly lose himself within.

With the image of her fresh in his mind, he looked at the previous pages that he'd filled in his little journal - all marked up with songs of her, skillfully crafting her impression with his sound. He couldn't deny the evidence. If he wrote her a few songs, but through a combination encompassing hundreds of lines of poetry, _then did he love her_?

He shook his head, sighing into the wind as it carried his breath away to wherever she was now. As selfish as he felt, and as horrid as he knew this passing thought was, Soul couldn't help but wish that she could hear that sigh so that she could tell him to do it again, and again, and again. All because she was excited to hear his raw voice and the sound he could create.

If only she could listen to his songs now. The ones dedicated to win her favor.

 _"_ _How shy you are,  
when you look away,  
and how I wish,  
so much to kiss you._

 _Feel how tantalizing your touch and breath is against mine,  
See both of us fall deeper and deeper into each other,  
Hear your sigh mixed with my own as we finally meet,  
Smell your scent being left on my skin and mine on yours,  
Taste your lips and become spun into another world._

 _And oh how I wish,  
you dreamed this too,  
So that we may both,  
Get what we want."_

And then the bell rang.

Perfect timing.

The bus that carried Maka would be coming soon then, he thought briefly to himself before becoming caught in conflict again. He wasn't waiting for that specific bus, of course not. He just didn't take an earlier one because of the possibility that he would arrive at Wes' too early, and he didn't want to alert his brother about his questionable academic attendance, no sir. Soul grudgingly trudged his way down the stairs after shoving both his journal and his phone hazardously into his backpack, careful to zip his pen into his recently acquired pencil case. He checked his pockets before leaving.

On his way down to the first floor, a few of his friends greeted him, teasing him about his absence, wondering aloud if it were a rendezvous. They laughed together in more hushed tones about how it was probably pretty important for him to be on the roof for so long, and then jokingly asked if he was with the pretty girl they'd heard rumors about. The one who sat next to Soul on the bus.

They had eyes everywhere, they teased, poking into Soul's side as he continued to brush them off, hurrying down the steps, hopping over two just to move more quickly.

He knew his classmates didn't take the bus nearly as much as him, seeing as they went to their public school. Soul was the rare few who lived elsewhere rather than the neighborhoods surrounding the area, but those who took transport with him had little else to divert their attention, spurring rumors about Soul's rendezvous with a girl, meeting with her only on the bus.

She didn't go here, they whispered. And she looked so familiar, they pondered. As if they've all seen her before.

They didn't linger on the topic outside of curious chatter about her identity and of her relations to Soul.

But let them talk.

Soul didn't want to say a single word to them, not a single word as he fought against the crowd to reach the bus first, not a single word needed as he took his place beside Maka. Silence was almost peaceful to him now, and he'd gotten used to shoving his headphones into his pockets around her. Although one would think it were strange to want to listen intently to a deaf girl, he knew that there was far more sounds she made that struck more than a conversation ever could.

The way she huffed out loud when he made her frustrated - he could just barely hear the whispers of her voice creeping up her throat. The way her feet scuffed the ground as she swung them back and forth - she often couldn't sit still when she smelled the garlic bread at a certain red light. The way she scratched her cheek with her short nails - a rare occurrence during moments he still couldn't piece together.

And there was so much more to discover, so much more to grow fond of, and so much more she was still hiding from those who didn't know how to listen.

The bus itself called out for Soul's attention. The buzz of the wheels and the mumble of the engine as it charged forward. The sudden bing as a stop was called and further indicated by a blinding light. The call of a woman's voice.

But he ignored it, preferring the sound of another.

And as he walked on the unsteady platform, something scratched at his ear. It was rare that he heard conversation during the familiar ride, and when he approached his usual seat that day and found a silhouette, he realized that he really did prefer the silence paired with background noise. The jarring noise bounced off the walls as if it were unwelcome to the vehicle itself, bringing the intruder's voice closer to him.

He was nauseated, disgusted that that filthy boy dared to go hear her. She didn't respond to any of his advances, didn't even blink as he raised his hand in front of her face, but her brow furrowed and her mouth twitched slightly. It was those little things about her that only he could see even as the bus shook beneath them. It was those little things that shouted the loudest.

And he was angry.

Soul crossed that distance quickly. His hand reached out to tear the boy's attention away from her, grabbing his shoulder and tugging it aside. If it wasn't a bump in the road that caused the guy to bounce backwards, then it may have been Soul's intense glare looking down at him that made him inch away.

"Is there a reason why you're sitting in my seat, flirting with _my_ girl?"

 _Where did these words come from? Surely, they weren't Soul's?_

The creep's response came more shakened than anything. "Y-your girl?"

And at that, Maka jumped from her seat, hopping over the boy completely and sliding into a new booth, patting the cushion next to her with a shy but small smile. She was relieved.

Without another word, but maybe a side glare just for good measure as the hell spawn crawled back to wherever he came, Soul made himself comfortable in the seat by her side. Along the ride somewhere, he bumped shoulders with her, but she didn't budge from where their arms met, pressed together. She was still looking down at her shoes; her pigtails covered her face.

Soul dug his hand into his pocket and closed the pendants in his fists.

 _Now wasn't a good time_ , he thought with a resigned sigh. _Soon though._

Soon, he could present her with a gift he found over the summer while he'd gone shopping with Wes for advanced piano books. Soon, he could hear her happy gasp and have the brightness in her eyes return from where it'd gone into hiding. Soon, he could watch as she studied their matching necklaces, stroking their metal surface with her delicate fingers.

Hers was a treble clef while his was a bass.

He hoped black, simple music could tie them together, even though one of them couldn't hear and the other one always listened too hard.

On the return trip later that evening, Soul signed to Maka that he was stopping by school again for a meeting with his morning club's advisor - just some business he was hoping to finish before sundown. She gave him a short handed answer, blushing slightly as she thanked him for the incident just a few hours ago. It meant a lot to her, she told him, glancing away again. And that was the end of their time together that day.

He got off at his designation, shuffling to the school before turning around toward the bus. From the window, he saw himself, and everything began to move too quickly for him to bear. He wanted to slow down time and plant his feet where the ghost of the momentum couldn't push him. But on the other side of the same coin, he wanted to go with her, wanted to continue their evening together even through the awkwardness of the ride, wanted to ask her what she was thinking of and why she avoided his eyes. He didn't know if she could see him or if she was paying attention, but if she did…

Soul closed his eyes, signing " _come with me_ " blindly into the air, wondering if the wind would carry his plea to her. He stood there through the hiss of the pressured air in front of him. He stood there through the sound of the doors as they closed. He stood there through the squeak the wheels as the brakes were released. He didn't open them until he sensed movement in front of him.

And for the first time, Soul wished he could look inside through the windows. It hurt to his reflection remain still while she moved forward to wherever she needed to be.

As the bus disappeared around the corner, Soul swiveled on his heel back towards the front gate, only to find that she stepped off with him.


	6. September 20, 20XX

**_September 20, 20XX_**

Hey.

Hey, Ox.

The hole I've dug is far too deep for me to escape now. But perhaps it's my own fault for allowing myself these pleasures when I should have been avoiding them in the first place.

Just how bad of a person have I become over these past selfish months, Oxford? How awful have I grown to continue to hold Soul the way I do? I've abandoned my fears, and I've abandoned his own best interests as I entertain this dream where we'd would go on forever.

He deserves a person who can provide him with joys of music the way he wishes for- a person who can listen to the songs he writes on his brother's living room floor. He deserves a friend who can give him opinions- real feedback and confirmation that his sound carries the qualities he tries so hard to achieve. He deserves a partner who can inspire him to continue forward- a muse.

 _But what am I?_

Who am I to Soul? I'm afraid to know... but I feel like I must also ask myself the same question.

Who is he to me, and just how deep has he latched onto my soul? We are more than scribbles on a page and accidental touches. His thoughts, his passions- they interest me far greater than anything else that's caught my attention before. He's ever present now, always on my mind and always here with me long after the the ride is over, and as much as it pains me to admit, he is also here in my heart. How long can I continue to linger in his eyes before it becomes too painful for us both?

Every night, I touch the necklace he pushed into my hand. He was afraid to part with it, and the metal was still warm from his grip. I turned it over in my hand, recognizing then that it was one of the symbols commonly used in music. But I had no idea what it meant, no clue of its meaning other than how important this figure was to Soul. The thought of it made me sad, but his earnest look made me smile.

He was too nervous to notice anything wrong; he pulled out another necklace from his pocket with another design, identifying it as mine's other half. They were crafted with the same material, both an offset black with a hint of gray running down seamless metal surface. Each of them were half the size of my palm, small enough to escape notice, but large enough to feel its weight. " _The tremble and the bass_ ," they were called. The beginning of every score and the key to any great musician's song.

As he explained, his expression lit up and his eyes grew brighter. His hands became more animate and his entire being emitted a telling quality of _life._ Even though I am deaf, I heard the fervor in his speech. And even if I were blind, I'm sure I would have been able to see his radiant energy. This was his _love_ he wanted to share with me as he tried to help me understand, even if we knew music was a lost memory to me, even if I had no hope of listening to any of the things he was describing.

Music was felt by the heart. Yet my heart _ached_.

I've written to you before, Oxford, and you know just how quickly _it_ has been progressing. My legs have grown weak, and I can hardly keep going through my day. It was much easier during the summer, but intrusive thoughts make their rounds again, ones that ask how long I have until my end. My only hope is to enter clinical trials, but even you know how little success they've had with the others at the hospital. We've seen how it ends...

I hate the smell there, but I hate my condition more.

I can't continue on with this- this _illusion_ I've built where I can forget about my health and where I can be happy. I want to live, Ox. I want to do _more_ than this routine life I've settled into- these trips to school, the hospital, then home. I want to slip away and escape, run to the park, hike a trail, go to the beach- _anywhere_. I want to continue to share my time with Soul outside of the world we've built for ourselves, somewhere present, unchanging. And above all, I want to _hear_ again.

It's been so long since I've felt his voice, the last being unforgettable as the first, both times protecting me when I couldn't do it for myself. I don't remember anything before he came, but I remember the way he approached the stranger beside me, the way his whole aura changed. He was so angry- _red,_ an expression I never knew he had outside of his gentle touches and his soft gaze. He took action immediately, pulling the other boy away long enough for me to hop to the booths on the other side, restarting time as I breathed in his words.

 _He called me his girl_.

I don't understand, Ox. When I read his lips, I thought I'd already passed and entered another realm. I thought that my heart jumped onto a plane, soaring and elated as it was, and thought my uneasy stomach would never return to its natural state. Imagine how I would have felt if I could _hear_ him? I'm desperate.

Maybe the next time I hear his voice, he'll save me again.

But... but I don't want that. I don't want his rescue. I don't want his kindness to stir me anymore than it already has. Why would he waste his time when I've already told him I belong to another. I'm not something he can reach. I feel selfish again as my heart betrays me, because above all else, I want to tell him with my own voice the next time he turns towards me:

Don't, for surely _I'll fall in love with you._


End file.
